


John’s stag night, but no client interrupts.

by AurorFelicis3755



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I'm meant to be writing another fic but this just came to me and I had to write it down, M/M, One Shot, The Stag Night (Sherlock: The Sign of Three), The Stag Night Fix-It (Sherlock: The Sign of Three)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 20:04:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurorFelicis3755/pseuds/AurorFelicis3755
Summary: It's John's last night of freedom, and he and Sherlock have got very drunk. No client interrupts them, so the evening takes a different turn.





	John’s stag night, but no client interrupts.

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to get really into the mindset of the story - I'm a method author? - so I wrote this while I was drunk. Please let me know if you find any typos or mistakes, I'm sure there are some.
> 
> This came to me while I was trying to write the main fic I'm working on, so I took a 3 hour detour to write this one shot instead of doing my planned writing. Ah well. Check out my new fic if I ever get round to actually writing it. It's gonna be multi chapter, and written better than this, I hope.

John slips off the seat of his chair, unsteady, hazy, very drunk. He reaches out on instinct and his hand finds something to steady his slowly sliding frame. Hm, warm. What is that? He looks down at his hand, gripping the knee of Sherlock Holmes. He quite liked that. They didn’t usually touch like this, but the warm glow inside them both seemed to make this… ok.

 

“Hmm, I don’t mind.” John shrugs, by way of an explanation why his hand was on the knee for so long. “I don’t- oof!” He’d slipped again, losing the support of the knee as he’d gestured to indicate his lack of minding, and landing firmly on his arse. He looked up at Sherlock from the floor and the sight was so pathetic that Sherlock let out a snort, which became a giggle, which became hiccups.

 

“Look *hic* what *hic* you’ve gone and *hic* done!” Sherlock can’t stop giggling, the smile immovable from his lips as he looks down at John, a pathetic heap on the floor at his feet. He’s caught the giggles too and is rolling around. Sherlock has never seen any sight more that filled him with so much joy.

 

“I’m a _doctor,_ Shhherlock, I can fix a hiccups, it’sh fine!” With no warning and alarming dexterity for someone in his state, he seizes Sherlock by the arm and yanks him to the floor next to him. Sherlock tries to land with grace but misjudges and ends up a heap of tangled limbs next to a hysterical John.

 

“Wha-*hic* wha-*hic* whayadoin *hic*?!”

 

“I’m _healing,_ I’m making it better, Shhherlock, I’m a medical profeshnul, Shhherlock” John feels like he’s making sense, and doesn’t understand why Sherlock won’t see reason. Maybe he’s tripping over his words a little more than usual, but his points are clear and valid.

 

Sherlock is feeling warm and fuzzy all over, his fingers and toes pleasantly numb. It’s hard to see a reason to argue with John, so he lets him have his way and lets himself bask in the glow of happy John, so close he can feel the heat from his body.

 

John clumsily arranges Sherlock unto his front and, kneeling beside him, starts making odd taps and whacks on his back. Sherlock feels his skin prickle at the touch, but even through the alcoholic haze he knows that he shouldn’t let this wave of feeling take over. A hazy thoughts about the future and regret and insecurities start to surface, and he panics and shoots upwards, kneeling by John’s side, absolutely rigid and still. “I’m not sure that’s the standard treatment for a diaphragm spasm, John.”

 

“It’s a special trick courtesy of Dr John Watson, Shhherlock, and as always,” he stops for a gleeful giggle he cannot contain, “you see but you do not _observe._ No more hiccups!”

 

Sherlock blinks. John is drunk, even more stupid that usual, and yet incredibly, he’s right. How did he notice this before Sherlock did? He must be more drunk than he thought. He feels something soft against his cheek and realises he’s tilted over and the side of his face is resting on the seat of his armchair. John seems to feel this was a wise move, and imitates him. John doesn’t seem to have thought this through however, as he goes to plant his face in the seat of Sherlock’s chair, finds his way obstructed by Sherlock himself. The result of this is that John finds his face resting on the expanse of pale neck revealed by the tilt of Sherlock’s head.

 

John is not really sure what to do. At least doing nothing won’t make things worse, right? Sherlock is still too, at least until John decides he really does have to breathe, and exhales through his nose onto the exposed skin. Sherlock’s irrepressible shiver awakes a thought in him which he’s too drunk to choose not to say.

 

“Shhhherlock,” he says into the neck, “have you ever… been with a man?”

 

“I-aahh, um, I-I… no, not-not really?”

“Did you know, neither have I. What the fuck.” John exhales again. It gains the same response, breaking through Sherlock’s inflexible stance, and for once, he feels he might have the upper hand in the situation. Fuck it. “It’s my last night of freedom, tonight.” He tries drawing small circles on Sherlock’s neck with his nose. Sherlock visibly gives up pretending to be a statue, relaxing into John’s touch and spurring him on. He explores the expanse of neck with his face, his lips occasionally brushing the delicate skin. Not quite far enough to cross a line. Not yet.

 

“Have you… have you ever wanted to..? With a man?” It was barely a whisper. Sherlock was sure John hadn’t heard him until he got a reply.

 

“All. The. Time.” And then John bit his neck.

 

There’s no taking that back. John is over the line. So far past being able to explain this away. And whether it’s because of the alcohol, the fear of his oncoming marriage, or the noise Sherlock just made, he finds he doesn’t give a fuck.

 

Sherlock feels the blood rushing to his cheeks at the noise he’d just heard come from his mouth, and that isn’t the only place blood is heading for. He may be oblivious to some social cues, but this is unmistakable; John Watson is behaving towards him in a… sexual manner. He doesn’t stop after Sherlock’s yelp-gasp-sound. He seems if anything to take it as a signal of encouragement, and he begins exploring Sherlock’s neck with his lips, tongue and teeth. Sherlock fight a very short internal battle between his morals - John is in a relationship and soon to be married - and the secret desire that has burned within him since he first laid eyes on Dr John Watson, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. He satisfies his morals by accepting that he himself has not yet done anything, has not reciprocated. Right now this was all John, and although he isn’t about to stop him, his conscience can take it as long as he isn’t an … active part of the situation, whatever it is. He tucks his hands under his knees. Keep them out of the way.

 

John’s hands have taken no such precautions. One slides up his back and one up his chest, and Sherlock is sure that even John can make a deduction from how fast the heartbeat he found there is racing. His mouth still working the neck area, one hand slides up his back and into his hair, and it is glorious but the alcohol is still in his system and it is all fuzzy round the edges and if only he was sober enough to be able to get as much data on this as possible to store and process and- _oh_. He definitely can feel that.

 

John wonders whether he’s going too far, too much, too fast, but his subconscious is miles ahead and guiding his hands over places he’s never been able to touch before and it’s _Sherlock._ He worries for just a second when he realises Sherlock is still relaxed but unmoving under his touch, but as John’s hand pauses on his chest, the hammering heartbeat tells him all he needs to know. Of course, Sherlock does everything his own way.

 

He can’t seem to stop exploring the surface of Sherlock’s body now he’s started. His hands seem to have developed independent thought and he doesn’t resent this. They seem to have some good ideas. He pauses, catching his breath, the teasing exhale tickling Sherlock’s neck. At some point he seems to have wedged his leg between Sherlock’s thighs in a desperate attempt to get closer. One hand has found its way to Sherlock’s waist, pulling John’s body tight against his shoulder and side. The other hand is tangled in Sherlock’s curls. Interesting. Now that’s something he’s always wanted to do.

 

He gives the handful of hair a firm tug. Sherlock doesn’t realise he’d had his eyes shut until they fly open at this action. This, in retrospect, was his undoing.

 

Eyes meet. Dilated pupils and desperate want reflected in each pair. For the first time, they look at eachother, and see what’s always been there.

 

John Watson’s eyes have always been a fascination of Sherlock’s. They would see with such medical skill and steadfast kindness. They would haunt his dreams in the two years he was away from them. They looked at him as if he was worth something. As he meets them now, he makes a decision. Morals are for idiots.

 

Sherlock’s eyes shine with repressed desire. John has never seen anything so beautiful. He feels he is drowning in the pools of ice blue, those eyes that see everything, they’re totally focussed on him now. John can very rarely tell what Sherlock is thinking, but his next move is unmistakable. His gaze drops to Johns lips, slightly parted and short of breath.

 

Clumsily, Sherlock leans forward. John leans in to meet him, one hand still in his hair. They pause, noses brushing, and take the moment to feel short breaths on hot skin. Sherlock places a cautious palm on John’s cheek. John licks his lips.

 

Sherlock closes the gap between them roughly, pushing their lips together in an outpour of pent-up feeling. The floodgates have opened and their mouths press together, tongues sliding in a sloppy mess of release.

 

“Oh, god, I love you,” John grunts through the kiss.

 

Sherlock freezes. “Wrong person. You’re drunk.”

 

John looks him straight in the eye, deadly serious. “No. Right person, Sherlock.”

 

“Oh.”

 

There’s a pause. Sherlock stares at John, unmoving.

 

“Hm. How to reboot a Sherlock Holmes. Ah. I remember.” An evil grin splashed across his face, John grabs a fistful of curls and pulls. This gives the desired effect. Sherlock yelps and launches himself at John, pinning him to the floor, both of them giggling and squirming. The same position they had been in not an hour ago, and yet so much had changed.


End file.
